


Fangs For All The Memories

by to_a_nightingale



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, M/M, baz is being dramatic because basilton pitch is dramatic gay and very tired, baz is giving up (TM), but simon is actual sunshine and won't let him, i put a couple dumb jokes in there because i'm incapable of being serious, is it though?, look i promise i was trying to be serious but i'm pretty sure it's crack now, simon and baz fight, you know what this may count as crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 03:16:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19076377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/to_a_nightingale/pseuds/to_a_nightingale
Summary: Baz managed to escape getting kidnapped by the numpties, and when he hides away in his mansion (because his family is paranoid and won't let him leave), his mother Visits him.The Families find out the truth about Natasha Grimm-Pitch, and a battle breaks out at Watford just when they would be starting their eighth year.Before Simon can find him and kill him (because Baz would never even try to kill Simon Snow), Baz decides to take a quick trip down memory lane.Of course, the peace can't last, and the final showdown between two enemies begins.(Listen this is not a serious story. I wrote this because I’m queer and need fluff!)(Previous title was the final fight, because I’m awful at titles.)





	Fangs For All The Memories

**Author's Note:**

> GOD ok this is a MESS and I wrote this in one night but look I had an idea and I felt like writing it. 
> 
> Enjoy!

It’s quiet, over here, in a way Mummers House never really was. There was always some kind of noise, the students in the rooms downstairs chatting, the merwolves ( _fucking_ merwolves) gurgling in the moat, birds shuffling around in the trees outside.

Now it’s silent. Still. Almost like the whole world is holding its breath until the battle is over.

The door opens silently when I reach our room. I pause at the entrance, realising that today would’ve been a few days into the new school year.

Maybe, in another world, I’m entering this room, carrying my bags, and preparing myself for a year of learning things I already know, avoiding Snow’s various accusations, football, violin, dinners and late nights with Dev and Niall where we laugh until our stomachs ache.

Maybe, in another world, I’m not here at all, because the Mage succeeded in kidnapping me to hide me away from Mum’s ghost. Maybe I didn’t fight off the numpties (I mean really, fucking _numpties_ ) and I’m stranded somewhere, stuck in the dark and waiting for death. Maybe I’m already dead.

What would Snow have done without me here? Would he have wondered where I went? Would he have looked for me? Would he have cared when the Mage, or Bunce, or even Wellbelove, tells him that they found my body? 

Probably not. Considering… everything.

It’s my own fault, really. I think Snow and I would’ve gotten on well without all the politics in our way.

Maybe, in another world, this room is our favourite place. The Crucible would’ve paired us up, I would shake his hand when he offered (Maybe my skin wouldn’t be the pale, pale, dead colour I know now.), and we would’ve become best friends. Maybe the dorm room I stand in now, a place that _I_ remember as a place of longing and pain, would’ve been a safe haven, a place of whispered midnight conversations and inside jokes and maybe, just _maybe_ , a first kiss.

Again, probably not. I don’t think there’s any world where Snow feels the same way. But we could’ve been friends. Could’ve had more than just fights, bruised cheekbones, and bitter words. I guess it’s too late now.

It’s too late for a lot of things.

I can’t even hear all the fighting from here. It’s at the other end of the school, too far away, and the window is shut (for once). I guess Snow wasn’t too concerned with the breeze when the Mage told him that the Old Families are attacking.

I let out a little sigh and move into the room. It looks the same, two beds, two desks, windows and bathroom. But _so much_ is different. Instead of standing here with my bags and trying so hard to not stare at Snow’s _everything_ I’m standing here with my wand clenched in my hand, torn clothes covered in building dust, bruises all over my body, and blood dripping from a cut on my face.

I walk over to my closet, running my hand over the familiar woodgrain. The door creaks when I swing it open.

Despite me being pedantic about the cleanliness of my side of the room, my closet is a mess (truly ironic, in a way). I haven’t really emptied it out since first year, and there’s bits of rubbish, a couple of empty potion bottles from a third year assignment and a sweater I forgot to bring home last year. There’s also a cardboard box, sealed with a spell. I didn’t trust Snow not to go snooping when I wasn’t around (rightfully so, he was relentless back in fourth year, always rummaging through my class notes, as if in the middle of Greek I would scribble “I’m secretly a vampire and want to drain Snow’s blood in the middle of the night.”) (which I would _never_ do, even if I wasn’t hopelessly in love with him. I happen to have morals, despite what Snow thinks.)

I pull the box out from the closet and settle on the floor. My battered limbs protest slightly, but I ignore them. 

“ ** _Open sesame._** ” I whisper, and the lid flies off it, landing on the other side of the room. Little bit dramatic, I probably could’ve opened it up with a spell that wouldn’t turn the lid into a projectile, but my brain is too tired to try and think of something else.

Besides, I’m going to die soon. I’m allowed to be dramatic if I want to. 

The box is filled almost to the brim. Memorabilia, various papers and photographs from throughout the years that I keep close to me and like to go through when I’m feeling particularly nostalgic. Never when Snow is in the room though. He’s far too nosy and there may or may not be a couple of things in here that relate to him. (There is. There totally is and I think I would light myself on fire if he ever saw that.)  

I shuffle through it, occasionally pausing to have a proper look at something. I pull the old diaries from my first few years out and set them on the floor without looking at them. (I don’t really need to see my younger self slowly fall in love with his enemy.) There’s some notes Dev, Niall, and I would pass in class, covered in funny drawings and them joking around. As I read what we wrote in sweeter, more innocent times, I feel my throat closing a little. I miss them. We haven’t seen each other much since my near kidnapping, and I wish I said goodbye. Told them that they did matter to me, even if I never said it before.

I take a deep breath and place the notes gently beside my stretched-out leg. Underneath where the notes had been, there are photos. Some are of me and my friends, on the school grounds or at one of our houses. They make me smile, seeing our younger, chubbier faces grinning smugly at the camera. Believe it or not, we used to have fun, back when the war was a distant thought and our major concern was winning the next football match.

A couple are of my family. Mordelia as baby, round cheeks and fluffy clothes. The twins giving identical toothy gapes at the camera, Daphne gazing fondly at them. It’s a little painful to look at. We’re not as close as I would like us to be, my family and me. I honestly gave up on my father when I realised that I was gay as well as being a vampire. I mean, I was the reason his wife died, he can only be so tolerant of me, and I should be grateful that he let me live at all, didn’t run a stake through me when I started needing blood to survive.

But I do love my siblings. The little ones are so cute sometimes, and I just want to bundle them up and protect them from the world. Mordelia and I used to be closer, when she was a little younger. She used to have nightmares sometimes, standard childhood night terrors. I would be the only one woken up, as I was the only one close to her room (plus the vampire hearing). I would run over and gather her in my arms, stroking her shaking back and whisper to her until she calmed down. Sometimes I would stay there with her, sitting next to her as she slept, playing with her soft hair.

As she grew older, we became distant, I guess. I should’ve never have let that happen. I hope that when she remembers her older brother, she’ll remember the one that slipped her cookies and called her _little puff_ when she cried, not the blood-sucking failure who was too weak to kill his own enemy, just because _I love him_.

I even regret not being closer to Daphne. She’s a good stepmother, probably better to me than I deserve. Doesn’t try too hard, doesn’t assume she replaces my real mother, no matter how long ago it was. Just offers what she can, tries to be enough for me. She gives me a hug and a peck on the cheek before I go back to school, tells me she’s proud of me when I achieve something, tells me the violin sounds lovely when she hears me practicing. It’s more than my father ever does, and I wish I told her that I appreciate it.

I shift those photos to the floor, piling them on top of the notes. In the box, more colourful images stare back at me. These ones are older, worn around the edges, from way before I ever started Watford.

There’s one of a young Fiona grinning at a little bundle in her arms (me), hair loose around her face, joy present in her eyes that I don’t really see as much anymore. She seems proud, looking at my tiny face with joy and love.

She really does love me, even if she has a funny way of showing it sometimes. She rough around the edges, but cares so deeply and so fiercely. She’s never said she loves me. Maybe I should have told her first.

I finally arrive at the photo I came here for. It’s the oldest one by far, it’s a bit faded and _really_ worn at the edges, with soft corners and a little crinkle in the bottom left. It’s of my mother and father on their wedding day, looking happy and perfect and so young and carefree my heart positively aches with her. I have never, ever, seen my father looking like that, smiling (smiling!) with it reaching his eyes, crinkling them up in the corners. He always looks sharp now, even when he’s supposed to be happy.

And my mother…

She looks beautiful. Her long hair is done up and her makeup is done to perfection. She’s grinning widely at my father, looking smug, as if to say _he’s mine. He’s mine and I can’t believe it_.

Fiona gave me this one night when she was absolutely hammered. Said that even though she never really liked my father, Natasha looked damn gorgeous and it would be a shame for that to be forgotten. It’s one of the only photos of my mother that I have.

I’m staring at it, trying to drink in every detail I can, when I hear pounding steps coming up the staircase. It was only a matter of time before it happened, I’m lucky to have had a moment alone to reminisce.

Before I can replace everything, Simon Snow bursts through the door (like he always did, I swear, he never _once_ opened that door gently, and it drove me insane). Now he’s standing there in righteous fury, looking a little flushed (I assume he’s been running around looking for me), and holding that ridiculous sword tightly in his hand. He’s glaring at me intensely, looking a bit annoyed (probably because he had to _look_ for me, when all I’ve been talking about for the last seven years is this moment right now, our final battle). Neither of us speak for a second, but the eye contact continues. I’m still sitting on the floor, surrounded by photos and old paper and he’s still standing at the door, looking unsure, probably expecting me to get up and fight him.

I sigh again, properly, and start replacing all of the contents of the box. When I pick up my wand, Snow flinches, but I just summon the lid and plop the box back into the closet. I finally stand up, holding in a groan when my leg is stiff and dead, and he’s still looking at me, analysing my every move, waiting for me to lash out. Instead, I straighten up and look right back at him. Silence passes for another second.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing up here, Baz?” Snow huffs indignantly. I shrug slightly (and immediately curse myself for doing so, who the hell do I think I am, Simon Snow? Basilton Pitch does not _shrug._ Normally.)

“Decided to come up and look at my room again, Snow. Not exactly a crime.” Snow rolls his eyes. 

“Baz, we’re in the middle of a battle. _The_ battle. The final showdown between us. Literally everything you’ve been waiting for is happening right now, and what, you came up here because you feel nostalgic?” Snow’s right, but he’s also wrong. He thinks I’ve been waiting for this because it’s _us_ , because it’s finally time to kill him once and for all, but I’ve given up on that thought a long time ago.

Now, I’m just waiting for him to kill me. 

“I know. I just… wanted to see it again. Before it’s all over.” I truly have no idea why we’re still talking, but I know that I have no more energy for merciless taunts and jabs. I can’t do anything but be honest, not when he’s looking at me with those _blue, blue_ eyes and with his golden hair and his freckles and moles and _I love him_.

I love him, and it’s time for him to kill me. 

I know that my side is winning. There are more of us than them, but the fight between Snow and I could probably still change everything. If I kill him now, the Mage loses his greatest weapon. (Because that’s all he is to the Mage. A weapon. A gun to point and shoot. Snow pretends he’s fine, but I know he wakes up gasping for air some nights. I know he feels the pressure, the burden. He doesn’t deserve that. He deserves to be loved, cherished, kissed all over and told how _amazing_ he is.)

I think he’s talking again, but I’m not really sure. I’m just looking at him, tracing his features admiring his light, his energy. He’s so _alive_.

“—shitty place to have a fight, Baz. Anathema will kick us out if we try to lay a hand on each other. School isn't on right now, but I'm pretty sure that you're technically still my roommate.” I roll my eyes.

“You really want to focus on technicalities right now?"  

"I'm just saying it's going to be hard for you to kill me if one of us gets thrown outside Watford's gates for landing a hit." Of course, he's right. I can't believe this. This has been building up almost eight years, and when it finally happens, when we're finally facing each other down, we end up having a discussion about it. I'm too tired for all of this. 

"Then  _ **let's take this outside**_." I flick my wand and the room swirls around us, dissolves and we're suddenly outside Mummer's House on the grass. Snow steadies himself and shifts his grip on the sword. My legs feel loose and like jelly, shaking slightly at the toll the spell took on me. It's not exactly as easy one, especially not in my current state. 

I barely have time to breathe before suddenly we're fighting. Snow is swinging his sword at me, moving not exactly  _gracefully_ (Simon Snow has never done anything graceful in his life) but with a mesmerising fluidity that I always admired whenever he practiced in our room. His face is serious, concentrated, and he dodges my weak muttered spells with ease. (Spells that honestly would do no more than tickle him, I know that if I send something stronger he won't get hit but I can't even risk it.) (Because I'm  _weak)._

I can't keep this up much longer. My head is pounding, my breath is unsteady, and I feel as though I'm seconds away from collapsing. Each spell, no matter how easy or weak, is draining me slowly. I stop sending offensive, and focus on blocking the sword's swipes a couple times. 

Just a few more seconds, maybe a minute longer, and I'll give up. I'm not really fighting, there's no point. I know I'm about to die. 

Snow's face slips from focused to confused when he realises that he's no longer dodging balls of light. I feel the build up of his magic, suffocating and thick, as his emotions build. 

I'm tired. I know I won't survive this. I just want it to hurry up. 

Snow growls ( _Crowley_ , even in my current state those growls are like drugs to me) and lunges forward again. This time, his magic pushes me too. I don't bother to block it. 

Now I'm laying on the bright grass, and when I open my eyes I see the  _blue blue_ sky and his  _blue blue_ eyes. He's flushed, panting slightly, and his curls move gently in the breeze. He's perfect. 

He also has the point of his sword resting on my chest, right above my heart. 

"Any last words, Baz?" His face seems stone cold, impassive. It's strange to see on him, normally glowing with various emotions. For once, I can't read him. 

"Last words, huh?" I huff a laugh. I'm so  _tired_ and I just want to be able to rest. I feel almost delirious with exhaustion. So that's probably why I say what I say next:

"How 'bout  _fangs_ for all the good memories?" Snow blinks once. Twice. I think he's in shock. I feel a smile tug my lips and let it take it's place. I can't fight anything anymore. 

" _What?_ " Honestly, Snow, I don't know either. 

"Did... did you just make a  _vampire joke_ _?_ Right  _now?_ When I'm  _about to kill you_ _?_ " His sword is now hovering above my skin and I push myself up onto my elbows. He doesn't seem to care, probably since my wand is several feet away from us and clearly I'm not going anywhere. 

"Well, what else should I say?" I watch as he frowns. 

"Well they're  _your_ last words, and I would've thought you'd say something cruel and scathing, not make a fucking vampire  _pun_." He looks genuinely so baffled. I want to kiss away his frown. I also want him to stop drawing this out and drive that sword through me already. Or maybe let me profess my undying love for him and  _then_  kill me. 

Instead I throw my head back and laugh. It weak, more of a wheeze than anything, but it's the first time I've laughed in a very long time. Probably also the last time. 

"No need to  _bite_ my head off, Snow. That really  _sucks_ the joy out of this. You know how I love to drive you  _batty_." He looks so incredibly confused, and I don't think I've ever seen something so funny. Of course, that  _could_ be due to the fact that I'm feeling mildly hysterical as I'm probably seconds away from my death. 

"What the fuck is going on." 

"My mi _stake_. You clearly have something  _deadly_ serious to talk to me about. Go ahead, Snow, don't be  _crypt_ ic about it." He looks extremely shell-shocked, and I can really understand. It's not exactly a common thing for your sworn enemy to be making puns when you're about to kill him. The Mage probably didn't prepare him for this scenario.

There's silence. 

For a while. 

Really, I get it. This is a weird situation. But my brain seems to want to cope by making dumb jokes, and I think I can indulge just this one last time. 

He keeps blinking at me and frowning like he's trying to figure me out. I raise my eyebrow, and sigh when there's no reaction. 

"Alright Snow, I just want this over with. You want my last words? Here they are: I love you, Simon Snow. I'm so completely and totally in love with you. I always have been. Every insult I threw your way, every time I hurt you, it keeps me up at night. It  _aches_ to be around you. I want you, I want you to be happy, I want you to be safe, and I want to live forever by your side. But that's not how this works. Neither of us had a choice in this. We were young, forced into this war to fight on behalf of adults, to fight and win _their_ battle. We're weapons, nothing more. I pushed you from day one because I thought that is what I was supposed to do. We could've been friends, in another life, we could've been anything, but it _had_ to be this way. You were always going to be the Mage's Heir, and I was always going to be a Grimm-Pitch. Sworn enemies, because we can't be anything else. But I wanted to be,  _Crowley_ I wanted to be. You're so full of life, all the time. It's incredible. Every time I look at you it's like looking into the sun, it hurts, but it's warm and nice and  _good._ You were the sun, Simon Snow, and I was crashing into you. I _love_ you." 

I move my elbows down and lay fully on the grass again. I can't look at his face, can't see the shock and disgust he feels. 

"So  _please_ , do it now, because I will never hurt you again, and I can't take a second more of this." I shut my eyes, waiting for the cold metal to pierce my skin. Waiting for it to be  _over_. 

Nothing happens. Then, there's a soft  _thud_ against the ground and warm lips on mine. I startle and my eyes snap open, and sure enough, Simon Snow is kneeling and leaning over me, firmly pressing himself to me and kissing the life out of me. 

It takes me longer than I care to admit to kiss him back. (Forgive me, the love of my life just kissed me instead of killing me like he said he wanted to for years  _I'm a little shocked_.)

He pulls away from me just as I feel warm and wet tears slipping between our cheeks. He's  _crying_ , he's  _crying_ because of me and it makes his eyes look so much bluer and even more intense. 

"Baz you absolute fucking  _idiot_ I almost killed you." He kisses me again, holding me tight. 

What exactly is going on? This isn't really how I thought this was going to end. Maybe he killed me, and I'm actually dead and now in heaven. 

But then he pulls my hair a little and  _oh that's real_. My arms wrap around his waist and pull him to me. I still don't really know what's happening, but I'll be damned if I don't enjoy it while it lasts. 

"Snow." I (regretfully) try to pull my lips far enough away to speak. He ignores me. " _Snow_. What--" I'm silenced once again by his lips (and  _tongue_  what is going on). I submit and continue to exist in a completely euphoric state because five minutes ago he was about to run me through with a sword and now his tongue is in my mouth and he's doing this thing with his chin that's making me feel _things_. 

Finally (unfortunately) he pulls back. His lips are red and shiny, his hair is messed up and he's breathing heavily (for a totally different reason than he was before) and I can't see myself but I'm certain I'm in a worse state. I pull myself into a sitting position and we regard each other in a silence broken only by our breathing. He moves forward again, slowly this time, and wraps his hand around the back of my neck and into my hair, tugging slightly. My eyes flutter shut when he come close, but I feel him press a kiss to the corner of my mouth, then my cheek, then my nose and my forehead. He kisses over the cut on my head. 

" _Baz..._ " He breathes. 

"Simon." I open my eyes when I no longer feel him close to my face and see him grinning. His cheeks are still wet from tears and his eyes are watery but he's smiling a smile I've never seen before. 

"You've never called me Simon before." His voice is gentle and quiet. I snort. 

"Also never professed my undying love for you before but here we are." Simon softens at that. 

"You meant that? You really do... you really love me?" 

"Yeah. I do." I feel a little awkward saying it without, you know, the threat of death looming seconds away, but he  _brightens_ like it's the best thing he's ever heard and I'm still. so. confused. 

"Why did you kiss me?" My voice is hoarse (from all the snogging and fighting and magic and yelling) (it's been a big day). 

"Because I wanted to. Because I don't want to hurt you ever again. Because  _fuck_ what we're supposed to do, and fuck everyone who tries to control us and fuck giving up. I want you here, next to me, where I know you can't get hurt."  _Oh my god oh my god what is happening am I dead am I dreaming what the Crowley is going on._

"You were going to kill me. I thought you wanted to kill me." He frowns and looks away, seemingly considering something. 

"I... was. I thought I didn't have a choice. Maybe I thought I wanted to. But then you made a  _pun_ and told me you loved me and I couldn't pretend I liked hurting you." I grab his hand and rub over his knuckles in what I hope is a soothing manner. " _God_ , Baz. I don't think I ever liked hurting you." 

"I thought you hated me." I don't  _want_ him to take it back, I don't want him to hate me, but I still don't feel like this is real. 

"I don't know if I ever really hated you. You've always just..." He turns to face me, a manic grin slowly forming on his face. "You've always been a  _pain in my neck_ , Baz." 

This time, I kiss him. He kisses me back and we sit there and hold each other. This doesn't end the war. Doesn't change anything for anyone but us. Things are still messy, but we can get through it. We can carry on.  

Together.

**Author's Note:**

> That's a wrap! This was honestly really dumb and all over the place. It started out angsty but then I thought /vampire puns/ and it flip flopped from angst to actual crack. 
> 
> But I had fun writing it! Hope you enjoy reading it, leave me a Kudos if you did and a comment if you have any ideas for me to write (or any corrections because I don't have a Beta and didn't proof-read this properly). 
> 
> I love love love Carry On and we do not have enough fics with our boys!


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